Tomorrow
by Got Tea
Summary: She is… perfect. For him.


**Written in fifteen minutes or so tonight, because I was sick of waiting for my longer fics to hurry up and be finished.**

* * *

 **Tomorrow.**

 **…**

"I want to be the cup of coffee that gets to kiss your sleepy lips awake every morning," he murmurs, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them. It's not the kind of thing he ever says, but somehow, right now, the words seem to fit. To explain what his heart is feeling as his body melds into the deep, deep mattress, utterly boneless.

Burrowed into the covers beside him Grace is barely awake, dozing in the heavy, heady glow of genuinely startling passion and heated, stormy desire. She's dishevelled, dreamy, and absolutely beautiful. And he never, ever wants to let go of her.

"I don't drink coffee first thing in the morning," she mumbles in reply, stretching luxuriously before curling further into the nest of blankets, clearly intent on remaining exactly where she is, as she is.

Her movement takes her further away from him, and he can't have that. Not now he knows what it feels like to touch her, to have her naked skin pressed tight against his, to feel the heat of her body stirring something deeply erotic, something carnal and primitive in his own.

She is… perfect. For him.

How he hasn't connected the dots before tonight, he really has no idea, but he knows, from the strength of just this one accidental and unexpected encounter, that he won't be able to let her go in the morning. This was not – this can't be – a one-time thing.

"You don't?" he asks, following her across the bed and tucking his body around hers, seeking and finding under the covers, gently caressing the soft, smooth skin he finds, needs.

"No," she breathes, almost asleep already. "Too bitter…"

It's astonishing just how accepting she seems to be. How unruffled by this whole earthshattering thing. But then, he thinks, isn't she always? Did she know this would happen? Did she predict this evening, along with every other moment in their lives she's foreseen, foretold or circumvented just by knowing him as unbelievably well as she seems to?

"How do you like your tea first thing, then?" He wants to know. He needs to know. Can't wait to see her sleepy and tousled and impossibly gorgeous in the early morning light.

Whatever it takes, he will do anything to prove to her that this shouldn't be just an accident, relegated to the memory bank of things that did, but should not, have happened.

"White, no sugar," Grace yawns, not opening her eyes. She settles even further under the covers, her back flush against his chest. Tugs his arm around her waist and laces their fingers. It's gentle; impossibly, quietly intimate. Something inside him shatters, crumbles.

"Go to sleep, Peter. I'm not going anywhere…"

It's almost instant, the way she succumbs to slumber, her breath evening out, her muscles relaxing even more.

Not for him. Boyd lies awake for long minutes, listening to her, feeling the warmth of her body, inhaling the scent of her skin. He's somewhere between very, very drunk on love and impossibly, unimaginably startled, shaken.

And it is good. Very, very good.

Lips resting against the back of her neck, Boyd kisses her there with infinite tenderness. "Good night, Grace," he whispers.

…

The slightest thud of something being placed carefully on the nightstand beside her makes Grace blink slowly and sleepily into wakefulness the next morning. The bed is not her own, but it is very, very comfortable, and she feels rested, secure. Happy.

Plain yellow ceramic, the chunky mug is as cheerful as her mood is blissful, and the contents are as inviting as the smile on the face of the man gazing down at her. Tea, white, steaming gently.

"You remembered," she hums softly, sitting up and propping herself against the pillows, taking the offered cup and sipping slowly, savouring that first taste.

"Of course," he murmurs. "How could I not?"

"But?" she asks, seeing something lurking there in those deep, deep eyes she spent her evening getting lost in.

He takes the tea from her, sets it aside again. "But I'm jealous," he admits, and then he leans in, kisses her lips slowly, softly. Fingers sliding deep into her tangled hair, he subsides down beside her, tugs her into his arms and keeps her there.

There's a slow, lazy fire in his eyes, and a warmth in his tone that makes her shiver. "I wanted to kiss you awake," he murmurs as they ease apart to breathe.

Grace frames his face, brushes the tip of her nose to his. Kisses him again, slowly, deeply, passionately. "Tomorrow," she promises as she presses herself against him. "Tomorrow."


End file.
